


forward all through the night

by AceQueenKing



Category: Hadestown - Mitchell
Genre: F/M, Ficlet Collection, Gen, Hadestober
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-14
Updated: 2020-10-14
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:36:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 2,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26999035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AceQueenKing/pseuds/AceQueenKing
Summary: A collection of ficlets for Hadestober prompts, focusing on the various beginnings and ends (literal and metaphorical) in the underworld.
Relationships: Eurydice/Orpheus (Hadestown), Hades & Hermes (Hadestown), Hades/Persephone (Hadestown), Persephone & The Workers (Hadestown)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 27





	1. 1) Railroad Track (OC Worker & Hades)

**Author's Note:**

> Ficlets written for the Hadestober prompt list [here](https://alyona11.tumblr.com/post/630801088338116608/me-and-markrodin-made-a-hadestown-prompt-list-for). Character pairings listed in the chapter headings, and summaries in the beginning notes. 
> 
> Railroad Track (OC Worker & Hades) - On a hot day, you meet a man, with an offer you cannot refuse.

_Once upon a time was a laborer, swinging their hammer down a railroad line. Once upon a time was a god offering a coin.  
_

* * *

Once upon a time, you met this man, or at least a man who reminded you of that old song. More than a man, you thought, least in his own mind. Type of man who stands with his legs wide apart, like _here I am, a God!_ You met this man, and he offered you a job.

This fellow was the sort of man you'd complain about, once upon a time. You’d have sniped ‘bout him with sister Bly, back on the farm; another banker-type come to shake daddy’s pockets dry. Still, despite his obvious desire to be seen as something greater than flesh and blood, well, the old fellow was a man all the same: white hair, dark eyes. White man, the sort you had to be careful when you were dealing with 'im; the kind of white man dressed in a suit made of black cotton and didn't so much as blink in the muggy heat. You ask him how he can stand it in the middle of your negotiations; he's been tryin' to find workers, but ain't too many people interested in listening. Hard work, hammering down the lines. Most break times, you don't want to listen to a pitch. Just want to relax. 

"It's hot where I'm from," he says, with an accent that you can't quite rightly place. Wasn't quite the sort of accent you heard a lot: not that clipped new eastern tone that most lookin' for railroad laborers had; something more...old-world, maybe, about him, or maybe southern.

"The choice is yours," he says, and he has a coin in his palm. You frown, not quite knowing why it unnerves you so; hadn't seen him pull it out of his pocket, though he must have -- must have done it when you weren't lookin'.

"What's the wage?" You ask.

"Competitive," he says _. Hot as hell out here_ , poor little old you thinks. Hot as hell. You dot your hairline with your handkerchief, but Mr. Three-Piece Suit, he ain't even sweating. Who doesn't sweat? It's odd. He's _odd_. You're not quite sure you trust him.

"What's _competitive_ ," you shoot back. He chuckles.

"Let's just say, all your needs met. You'll not want for much. Bed and food provided." The last part of that sentence stops you in your tracks: be mighty nice, mighty nice indeed to have that. Old UP, Union Pacific, they ain't paying your lodgings, and they sure as _hell_ ain't paying your bed. You could send an awful lot back to sister Bly if you took this stranger's deal, and sister Bly needs it awful much.

Them bankers ain’t stopped knocking. Even though it was daddy who'd taken the money, and daddy's been long dead now, years. Years and years. 

"Course it's far from home," the old man says. "The line I need to build. You won’t go home anytime soon." Still not sweating. Def don't trust him. But the money - the money's mighty tempting.

"Most people stay," he says. Unprompted.

"How do I know you're one to keep your word?" You ask; he smiles.

"Just take this coin," he says. “Offer it to my man at the station. That’s all you need to do. You'll know him when you see him."

And it's cryptic enough, as an answer, but sufficient. "I'll think about it," you say.

"I'll see you on the line," says the man, who knows well enough that what is not a no is, in itself, more or less a yes.

* * *

_Once upon a time was a laborer, swinging their hammer down a railroad line. Once upon a time was a god offering a coin._

_Once upon a time was a person who gambled, who took the coin. Some say they went to went to heaven, some say they went to hell; some say if you listen close, you can hear them under the ground, growin', growin', growin' that railroad line. But anyone knows, and_ **_everyone_ ** _knows, ain't nobody ever seen them again, again, again._


	2. 2) A Dance That Lasts a Moment (Persephone + the Workers)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, our lady of the upside-down drops her guard. 
> 
> Warning: canon-typical mentions of Persephone’s alcoholism

Nobody likes it when the lord and the lady fight.

Mister Hades, himself, ruler of every bit of Hadestown and every bit in between, well, he likes it least of all, and he’s more than a little liable to take it out on us worker bees. Can always tell how much the Lord and the Lady are fighting by the quota numbers: when its bad, King Hades sets them sky-high, so high that he himself conveniently cannot go home, that we ourselves must do double shifts, or sometimes triple; and that the lady herself will have to do without him.

None of us like it when that happens. "Good" King Hades, he’s not what one would call a patient man. He tries, sometimes, but he just ain’t got the temperament. When his wife spits mad, well, he spits mad too, but he spits more at us than her. And when you are the one he’s working well past your death, well, you don’t feel so kindly toward the man. 

And it's been bad for a while. Double shifts more the rule than the exception. And all workers like us can do is keep our heads down low. Some of us made our choices sooner, and some of us made our choices later, but all of us chose to come down here, to toil away our time in old King Hades mines and mills, and while away our ever-more-limited free time in the missus’ speakeasy. We all like the speakeasy, and the lady by proxy. Can’t hold the fighting against her, her who serves us so nicely. 

Now the missus has always been sharp in her tongue, just _sharp_ in her tongue, when it concerns her husband, but she’s been kind to us. Come into her speakeasy with a face covered in soot and she’ll scoff and give you a drink good enough to clean up your face and wipe your insides clean, too. The best part of being dead; ain’t no such thing as alcohol poisoning anymore. 

And our lady likes her drink. She can drink any of us workers under the table. Often does. Our lady ain’t dead but she’s a goddess; that or maybe time just moves so slow down here that it outright decided to just ignore our lady. “ _Ain’t so high and holy_ ,” she’ll tell us, but we all know better.

Anyone who can drink like a fish and still keep this under the all-seeing eye of Eagle-Eyed King Hades, well: she’s a bit of a hero for our kind. Normally she doesn’t say too much, save for complaining about her husband, or tutting about us. Knows us all by name, you know? We’ve been down here so long a lot of us don’t know our names, but our lady remembers. 

They say Mr. Hades is the god in charge down here. But we’re not so sure that’s the case. 

Sometimes, and only on the very worst of the days, the missus will relax her guard more; once in a while, she’ll leave the bar, start to hum this song. This little ditty, the sort of song that barely has words: _la la la la la,_ she’ll say, and its gorgeous and ethereal as she is. And sometimes, if you’re very lucky, you’ll see her close her eyes and twirl her arms, and the lady will start to dance while she’s singing.

Ain’t never seen much like that. It’s hard to describe, but it’s a holy thing: when the lady dances, everyone watches. It’s not that she’s particularly graceful or nothin’; it's that you see her unguarded at that moment, her eyes focused on some past time we’ve never seen. Sometimes, she whispers _his_ name in a little sob. We all pretend not to hear, for her own sake. Our lady tries real hard not to be so maudlin. Suppose you need that, if you’re the queen of such a place. Never dances long neither. A couple of minutes, maybe. Then the show’s over.

It seems to us, then, that her husband, well, whatever their problems: Blind King Hades is a stupid man, because nothing down here is so sacred as her expression, and all the love in it. 


	3. Touched by the Gods (Persephone/Hades)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning: mentions of some of the erm, more dubious consent of some of the Greek gods

Persephone ain't been the type of girl who is, as her mother would say, a _trollop_. Not her way, and not her kind. Not that she's one of that _other_ kind, either; the prude-y little cold-bloods like her auntie Hestia or sister Athena. No shame for those who are, mind; it's a valid survival strategy out there on Olympus. Lots of gods who ain't too delicate in their courting, lots of gods who ain't too careful about the reputations they shatter. Persephone makes it by mostly staying the _hell_ out of their way. That goes double at the family parties; ma does the meeting and greeting, and Persephone, well she just keeps her head down.

Except of course, that keeping your head down tends to make you run into other gods. Like Mr. Dark and Deadly himself, who has, evidently, staked out the table nearest to the wall at this family gathering.

"This seat taken?" She snarks; he raises an eyebrow, and she sees the lines that dust his face. Not that young, him; old enough to be her father, maybe. Hard to tell among their kind. Her father's put most of his power in trying to stop the inexorable war of time against his face. Looks younger than she does. This one ain't that vain.

"No," he says, simply. Scoots a bit back. Inclines his head toward her, doesn't smile. Not in his nature to smile, maybe; probably have to be a bit sour to take on his sort of work.

"Hades," he says, simply, though she knows who he is. He holds out his hand. She takes it carefully, studies it. Heavy hands; worker's hands.

"Persephone," she says. She likes his hand. Doesn't stop holding it. Makes her feel something flip, deep in her insides.

"Demeter's kid," he offers, flatly. She frowns. _Clearly_ he doesn't feel the same.

"Not a child." She scoots closer more than she should. It occurs to her that maybe she is playing with fire when she looks at his eyes, which spark with a light she hasn't quite seen before.

"That so?" He leans a little closer to her. "Hm. Don't often get up this way; suppose it's possible I've missed a few birthdays." He pauses for a long moment, takes a drink but doesn't take his eyes off her.

"Suppose you did," she snorts. "Must be pig-blind, too, if you can't see _I'm_ grown." Persephone has always had a razor in her mouth, and she is grateful for a chance to use it. He seems to like her sharpness, because he smiles.

"Mighty dark down there, I'll admit." He chuckles. "But a pretty creature like you?" He snaps his fingers. "Hard to miss. You _shine_." A more blatant flirtation; Persephone runs through her mental file of known facts about him and comes up with not much: not the type of man who flirts often. No gossip from the nymphs, even.

"Creature?" She scoffs into her water. Her haughtiness seems to amuse him.

" _Woman_ ," he says. His voice drifts all the way down to the bottom of his register. If it's meant to intimidate her, it doesn't. If it's meant to turn her on, it sure as _hell_ does.

"That's right." She reaches over onto one of the many trays floating around the room, grabs an hors d'oeuvre, and crunches it between her teeth. He watches it, every bit of his attention focused entirely on her lips.

"Hm." He gives her a smile. It's not something that she thinks that most people would find attractive; closer to a grimace than a proper smile, more of a twitch than something natural. "Well. Noted."

"Good." She leans her foot down and deliberately kicks at his feet. He looks down a second, takes a deep breath.

"Am I understanding...?" He says, in his heavy voice. She doesn't say anything, just raises her brow.

"You got a reputation for a lot of things, but I ain't never thought one of them was being thick."

"Damn right." Emboldened, he reaches out, grabs her hand. "You're a force of nature, Persephone," he says, sounding more than a little interested.

"You have no idea," she says, and squeezes his hand tight, feeling her stomach twist in anticipation.


End file.
